


Ian Gallagher (and Other Works in Progress)

by Ijustwannaread



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Childhood Trauma, Fiona cameo bc I said so, Fluff and Angst, Ian Gallagher and Mickey Milkovich in Love, Lip is a good brother and an asshole, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mickey and Carl bonding time!, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Season/Series 10, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:27:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25206217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ijustwannaread/pseuds/Ijustwannaread
Summary: “Don’t see why you gotta make with the Ian Gallagher greatest hits apology tour thing.” Ian can’t conjure the words to explain himself. He can barely understand his own increased obsession with the past.In which Ian is twenty-three, newly married, and figuring his shit out.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Lip Gallagher/Tami Tamietti
Comments: 14
Kudos: 225





	Ian Gallagher (and Other Works in Progress)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [twinfinite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twinfinite/gifts).



> EDIT: I altered an intimate scene between Mickey and Ian from the original version.

As Ian shuffles from one completely baffling art piece towards yet another minimalist sculpture while dodging a group of stylishly dressed women who have been undressing him with their eyes for the last fifteen minutes, it strikes him suddenly how much of a homebody he’s been for the last few months. 

He’s lost Debbie somewhere in the swirl of pretentious art patrons. Last he’d seen, she was babysitting the cheese and crackers table and eyeing someone dressed in a suit that probably cost more than Ian has made this year. He’s going to graciously overlook the fact that Debbie is probably already breaking her bold “ _ I will never again pursue a relationship with another human being _ ” declaration, mainly on account of the fact that not a soul took it seriously in the first place. 

Ian had suggested this gallery opening as a half-baked attempt to distract Debbie from her dismal legal battle. He and Lip had been brainstorming possible activities to drag Debbie on when Ian had remembered how his boss from his prior EMT job had always been waxing poetic about fancy gallery openings were a great way to score free hor d'oeuvres and even champagne if you were lucky. As soon as that memory resurfaced, Ian had thought of Debbie’s recent fascination with dressing up and playing chameleon with Chicago’s upper echelon. 

And maybe Ian had once himself dabbled in blending in with the affluent lifestyle, but in this moment he’s feeling utterly at sea in this crowd. Whether it’s a direct result of his current cocktail of medication, the lingering honeymoon phase of his marriage, or just growing up, the idea of mingling with any of these Northside preps just is not striking him as remotely appealing. 

He’s about to seek Debbie out in earnest when he hears someone calling out his name. 

“Ian?” He spins around and realizes that the voice belongs to a stocky man with his hair immaculately gelled. Ian scrambles to place him. He looks incredibly familiar and yet frustratingly impossible to recall from where. 

“Hey,” Ian returns vaguely, throwing on a smile and a loose wave for good measure. Any second now, a memory will spark...

“It’s Ryan,” the man seems to recognize Ian’s struggle, “Saturday nights in Boys Town?” He’s smiling openly, and doesn’t seem to mind that he apparently doesn’t rate as memorable. Fortunately, his hint does the trick, and Ian is suddenly awash in memories of fairy lights in upscale apartments, topshelf liquor, and tispy conversations with Chicago’s elite gay men. Ryan, the engineer and photographer. Ryan with all the college-educated friends who were all seemingly embarking on incredible art projects, conducting important social research, or starting promising new businesses. 

At the time, Ian had never felt more alive and inspired than when he was at one of Ryan’s elegant parties. Now, knowing what he knows, a gray shadow passes over his gilded memories of that time. 

“Hey, Ryan! It’s been a while!” He struggles to reclaim that affable, elated version of himself that had once mingled with Ryan and his effortless horde of friends. 

“It’s so good to see you again,” Ryan says, “We were so worried about you when you disappeared. God, that must have been almost five years ago, now?” 

“Must be. Wow,” Ian breathes. “Yeah, I had to move on to greener pastures, you know?” He’s not sure Ryan heard from the grapevine about his latest life “choices,” so he doesn’t know whether his sarcasm is clear to Ryan. He doesn’t exactly care. 

Ryan nods sagely. “Good for you. I always thought that the club's management deserved prison time for how they operated.” 

Ian laughs a little, unsure of how else to respond. His boss had been kind of a dick who came on to all of his employees indiscriminately, but otherwise Ian really hadn’t had complaints. 

“Pretty sure it got closed down for solicitation a couple of years back,” Ryan explains. 

Oh. 

Ian honestly feels floored to hear Ryan talk about the club as though it had always been the scourge of society. 

“Really?” Ian feigns casual. 

“Pretty sure, even though I lost track of the place. If you can believe it, me and a couple of the others got banned after they finally caught on to the fact that we kept inviting the young dancers back to the loft before they could get kidnapped by pervs,” Ryan says, shaking his head. 

Ian is feeling sick in the pit of his stomach, but he can’t quite figure out why. He’s sure his smile is slipping, but Ryan doesn’t appear to notice. He makes a few more disparaging statements about the useless security guards, but then he does a quick scan of Ian’s expression and elects to change the subject. 

“Forgive me for the rant! So - what have you been up to these days?” 

Ian is sucking in a heavy breath of air in preparation for whatever explanation he’s going to conjure up when Debbie drops back in. 

“Hey, Ian - thought I’d lost you!” She looks between him and Ryan expectantly. 

“Hey, Debs. This is my old friend Ryan. Ryan, this is my little sister, Debbie.” Debbie gives Ryan an appreciate once over as she shakes his hand, but thankfully Ian suspects she clocks him as gay quickly enough to prevent her any misguided attempts to flirt. 

“Sorry to butt in, but these fancy cheeses aren’t cutting it and my brother promised to take me to eat something deep fried tonight,” Debbie says. 

“That sounds wonderful,” Ryan beams, and dips a hand into his blazer pocket, “Here, have my card, Ian. I’d love to catch up some time.” He sounds genuine and it makes Ian’s chest tighten. 

With that, he and Debbie manage to extricate themselves from the gallery and into the crisp night air. Ian digs his hands into his pockets and Debbie pulls the ridiculous faux-fur coat she’d pilfered from an estate sale tighter around her shoulders. 

“You okay?” Debbie asks. She’s looking at him with those big, earnest eyes. 

“Yeah, of course. Why do you ask?” Ian really doesn’t need the third degree on a night that’s supposed to be about giving Debbie an uncomplicated fun time. He pats his pockets down in search of a flattened pack of cigarettes and avoids her gaze. 

“You’ve got scowly-face.” 

“What the hell is scowly-face?” 

“That.” Debbie gestures emphatically at his general person. 

“You’re imagining things,” Ian scoffs, and pulls an arm all the way around her fuzzy coat. “Let’s get some food, yeah?” 

Debbie gives him a disbelieving look, but leans her head into his shoulder. 

All of the restaurants in the neighborhood of the gallery have fifteen dollar cocktails and thimble sized portions, so they hop on the L towards a diner that Debbie swears by emphatically. 

Luckily, the restaurant is on their way home. Ian has had it with the night. 

When they round the block towards the brightly lit spot, Ian steals himself to face the fluorescent lights and the smell of burning oil from the back kitchen. 

When he walks into the restaurant, he is pleasantly surprised to see the lights are tastefully low and the place smells like heaven. Even more surprisingly, he spots Mickey, who is leaning back in a booth and reading very seriously through a menu. 

“What are you doing here?” Ian demands, striding towards his husband and shooting Debbie a quizzical look. 

“Your little sis said I could crash,” Mickey shrugs, but Ian doesn’t miss how his eyes flash to exchange a quick, meaningful look with Debbie. “That okay with you, American Psycho?” 

Ian decides against dignifying Mickey’s jab at his formal wear with a response, and slides into the booth next to him. He slips his hand onto Mickey’s thigh under the table. 

“If a waiter comes, order me a cheeseburger. I’m gonna go ask about the BYOB policy.” Debbie flashes a bottle of expensive champagne that she’d clearly snatched from the event. 

“Debbie just called you out of the blue, huh?” Ian ventures. 

“Guess she didn’t want me to miss out on your James Bond look.” Mickey gives him a lingering once over that Ian thinks is probably supposed to look lecherous but ends up looking completely besotted. 

With that, whether or not this was Debbie’s plan all along, Ian feels suitably distracted. The past is in the past. 

  
  
  


The past, as it would seem, is sneaking its ugly little way into the present. The next morning, Ian finds Ryan’s card lying face-up on his bedroom floor, having apparently slipped out of his pocket in last night’s haste to throw off his clothes. The second he leans to pick it up, the memories hit him like a tidal wave. 

He pictures that version of himself at seventeen, with a freshly grown out buzz cut and newfound taste for Molly. He remembers how he’d been able to navigate the pulsing haze of strobe lights and cocaine and still track down the hungriest patrons like a heat-seeking missile. He’d developed a sixth sense for that specific kind of attention, and it had felt like a superpower. Now he’s left wondering if it was just another survival adaptation, after all. 

He remembers seeing Ryan’s group of friends filter in and out of the club for weeks before they were actually introduced. They had confused him, at first. 

They came as a group once a week like clockwork. They tipped the dancers with an appreciative smile and even a laugh, but they always remained insular, dancing in tight little packs and ordering each other rounds and rounds of shots. Ian had wildly misread Ryan’s intentions when he’d asked him to join an after-party, which apparently ended right when his shift did. He’d expected something wild and dangerous, but what he’d gotten was free weed and an ambient background noise of more ska music than he’d ever bargained for. 

Some part of Ian’s mind can’t help but periodically cycle back to that time, where he’d felt powerful and privy to all of the excitement and fancy of the world. He knows it’s fucked up, and that manic period is getting even more distorted in his memory with the passing years, but he often feels like he might always chase that high. 

But today, as Ian commutes to his latest unpromising job interview, he can’t stop thinking about how he must have looked to everyone else. What they must have been thinking when he came home in the early morning with smudged mascara on his face and a wallet full of sweaty, crumbled twenties. He remembers catching Fiona staring him down over dinner, dropping pamphlets about GED’s. Mickey and Mandy’s muffled voices through closed doors, how they couldn’t quite meet his eyes when he walked into the room sometimes after he caught them talking.

And later that night, as he lays down in bed and waits for his medication to put him to sleep, he is still thinking about that stupid card. 

When Mickey finally slips in next to him, smelling like toothpaste and his nightly pre-bed smoke, Ian turns over to face him. 

“Hey, Mick?” 

“You still awake?” Mickey slides closer against Ian’s chest. 

“I ran into this guy I used to know from the club. He wants to catch up.” 

Mickey cranes his neck to survey Ian’s face, his eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline. 

“He know you’re married?” 

Ian rolls his eyes and gives Mickey a little shove with his shoulder. 

“I’ve got the ring, don’t I?” He angles his ring finger right between Mickey’s eyes. Mickey makes a low, dissatisfied noise at the non-answer. 

“He used to have these amazing parties at his loft downtown. The guy knows basically every gay man in the city.” Ian doesn’t know why he’s even pushing this topic. The other night, he’d told himself that he was going to push all of that shit from his club days back into that deep, dark recess of his brain. 

Mickey sits up straighter in bed and crosses his arms. 

“You talking about that mousey queer whose yuppie apartment you dragged me to once?” 

Ian’s a bit thrown by Mickey’s description of Ryan, but more thrown still by the fact that he remembers the loft parties. After a moment of thought, Ian does recall bringing Mickey with him once. The night itself is a blur, but he has the feeling that it had been a good time. 

Sometimes, somehow, he forgets how deeply his young life was intertwined with Mickey’s. He’d spent so many years desperately trying to will the memories of their relationship into nonexistence, and now he’s not sure how to feel about his renewed clarity regarding the fact that Mickey had a front row seat to some of those formative moments. 

“His name is Ryan, but yes,” Ian says pointedly. There is a moment of silence. Mickey actually seems to be considering his next words carefully. 

“He was one of the only mooks you used to run with who I didn’t think wanted to tie you up in a basement and make you into a skin suit. Even if he was a pansy-ass motherfucker.” 

Ian snorts a bit helplessly. Jesus Christ. There’s so much wrong with his life. Mickey’s ability to take the bullshit in his own special brand of stride is comforting in a messed up kind of way. 

“I’ll take your endorsement into consideration.” 

  
  
  


Ian does take Mickey’s words to heart, which is partially why he finds himself sitting at a cafe downtown, nursing a six dollar cup of coffee and trying to shake the feeling that he’s on a platonic blind date. He doesn’t know how to interact with Ryan in a sober setting, and Ryan certainly doesn’t know this heavily medicated, ex-con version of him. 

“Hey, there!” Ryan chirps, approaching Ian’s table and holding a drink that is green and frothy. He’s wearing stylishly cropped pants with a loudly patterned shirt. Ian feels sloppy in his ripped jeans and a shirt he’s pretty sure Lip stole in high school. He waves back and tries to feel prepared for anything. 

“Thanks for meeting me here, this place has me totally addicted to their lattes,” Ryan sets his drink down and sits across from Ian. “Sorry I’m late!”

He isn’t late. Ian came early specifically because he didn’t want to deal with Ryan offering to pay for a drink. Petty, maybe, but his unemployed ass needs to get his kicks where he can. 

“No worries! Hey, I meant to ask at the gallery, you still doing photography?” Ryan’s open smile turns into a bit of a grimace. 

“Nah, had to drop that pet project a while ago. Had a bit of a messy breakup. Guy took half my camera gear and basically put me off of any form of art indefinitely.” 

Ian raises his eyebrows. 

“It wasn’t Jeff was it?” He asks, without thinking. Back in the day, Jeff and Ryan had a legendary on and off relationship. They hadn’t been together when Ian knew them, but the tension that came off of each of their interactions was palpable and oft-discussed. Ian had also thought Jeff was a tight-ass with a God complex and zero sense of humor. He’d worn all too many bow ties. If Jeff had gone to high school with Ian, it probably would have saved him a whole lot of black-eyes because every bully in the neighborhood would have had a field day with that guy. 

Ryan breaks out into an appreciative laugh. 

“You know, you always knew how to keep us all in check. I still remember when you told Alan, God, what was it? Oh - that he acted like Mr. Rogers if he was on shrooms!” 

Ian cringes hard internally as Ryan grins in appreciation of yet another memory Ian doesn’t have. 

“Yeah, I didn’t have much of a filter back then.”

“It was the best! Half my friends really needed to get taken down a peg or two back then.” 

“Then, you’re welcome. I guess.” Ian is starting to remember why he’d liked Ryan in the first place. 

“But less about me, more about you! What have you been up to?” And there’s the dreaded question. Ian had thought about how he would approach it, and had decided to fall back on his usual tactic: excessive honesty. 

“Well, I had a psychotic break, was briefly institutionalized, then I became an EMT just in time to have another breakdown. After that I tried to start my own religion. Just spent a year in prison for arson, so now I’m basically thriving.”

Ryan tenses visibly with each bullet point on the wonderful list of fuckups that comprise Ian’s early adulthood. He opens his mouth and then closes it again. There’s a brief, painful silence. 

“Oh my god. How long ago did you get out?” Ian is marginally relieved that Ryan doesn’t immediately assume he’s making a long, sick joke by laying it all out like this, but he’s also now all too aware of the fact that he’s almost certainly the first person that Ryan has interacted with who’s ever done time. Or even been in jail, for Christ’s sake. 

“Four months, near about.” 

“Wow, I’m so sorry to hear that.” Ryan’s response would have been more appropriate if he had just heard Ian missed his stop on the subway rather than explained his recent incarceration. The incongruity makes Ian huff out a laugh. Ryan smiles uncomfortably in return, seeming to agree with Ian’s assessment. 

“Yep,” Ian says flatly.

“You know, I have this friend who knows Piper Kerman-” he catches Ian’s searching expression, “the woman who wrote  _ Orange is the New Black _ ?” 

“Isn’t that the show about the women’s prison?” Great. Ryan’s only knowledge of the prison system is based on some half-baked dramedy. He probably thinks Ian’s time in the big house was just a comedic saga of relationship drama and maybe even a Romeo-and-Juliet type romance with a sexy prison guard. 

“Exactly! Piper’s apparently super cool and totally connected to a lot of programs that help get ex-cons back on track. I could totally reach out and see if anything would be helpful!”

Ian fixes him with a hard stare, at a complete loss for words. He really had hoped that he didn’t have a sign on his forehead that says “Charity Case” in bright red letters. Ryan, as much as Ian remembers from the old days, seems both immune to thinly veiled hostility and very game to quickly redirect. 

“Are you back working as an EMT?” He pivots, after half a moment. 

Ian takes a long sip of coffee, grateful that it is as good as Ryan advertised, because this is starting to feel all too reminiscent of the last time he talked to a psychiatrist in order to readjust his medication. 

“Nah,” he says, “I mean, I want to find another EMT gig, but I’m looking for something with more regular hours. Things are kinda nuts at home.” 

Ian is cracking on the total honesty front. Sure, regular hours are sounding nicer and nicer, but he’s really just waiting for some of the heat to come off of the investigation into Paula’s evil empire. Once she’d bit it, her ex had blabbed about the whole scheme, so now Ian needs to wait until some of the heat dies down from that particular scandal. The news media is still having a field day. 

Ryan nods sympathetically. Ian distantly remembers regaling the old crew with tales of his family’s dysfunction, how they’d all seemed to find his anecdotes hilarious. They probably also thought they were deeply depressing, on a level, Ian thinks. Laughing is more polite than commenting on the madness of it all. 

“So what do you want to do?” 

Anything but janitorial, Ian thinks. Or garbage collection. The way Carl comes home smelling reminds him of Mickey all those years ago before he realized that showers were a thing. 

“I really just want to be an EMT again. I don’t think I’m good at much else.” Ian wants to throw himself out the window for how goddamn pathetic that sentence sounds. 

“Sounds like you need to find something fun until you can make the EMT work happen again.” 

Ian almost chokes on his coffee. 

“I have a GED and a criminal record. Pretty sure I’m banned for life from doing anything fun as a profession.” 

Ryan runs a hand through his hair, but manages to school his expression somewhere just north of pitying. 

“You’ve got a lot more to offer than you think, Ian,” Ryan objects. “Besides, Tesla’s saying they’ll hire engineers with high school diplomas. College degrees are about to be totally useless, anyway! You just need to know the right people.” 

Ian has half a mind to demand exactly what planet Ryan’s living on, but another half of him is weirdly refreshed by the well-intentioned positive thinking. He wants to pretend for a second that Ryan isn’t just spewing the usual trust-fund bullshit that people with Ian’s upbringing are trained to sneer at on sight. 

“Who are the right people then?” Ian asks, wryly. Ryan points to himself with a cocky smirk that is at least partially tongue-in-cheek. Ian crosses his arms. 

“You know, I kinda believe that. My husband’s PO keeps getting him jobs offers outta nowhere, and he’s never worked an honest day in his life.” 

Ryan’s eyes bulge theatrically. 

“Excuse me, did you say your  _ husband _ ?” Ryan’s giddy excitement about the news reminds Ian that the ring apparently hadn’t made it as clear as he’d thought. 

“Oh yeah, I got married about a month ago,” he explains, showing off the ring and trying desperately not to grin like a love struck puppy. It’s still remarkable to him that the concept of being married gives him a gleeful little flutter in the pit of his stomach. He’s going to enjoy it while it lasts.

“Oh my god, tell all! Who is he? Tall, dark, and handsome, I hope?” 

“Short, pasty, and hideous, actually. But I love him, anyway.” Ryan chuckles. “Actually, I think you might have met him before at a party at your place?” 

Ryan strokes his face, clearly straining to recall. 

“Oh! Was he that one guy with the... tattoos?” He runs his fingers over his knuckles to illustrate. 

“Yep, that’s the one.” 

Ryan looks like he’s trying to choose his next words very carefully. 

“Ugh - I don’t remember much about him, but I do remember he seemed to have it for you  _ bad _ . Mazel tov! I’m so happy for you.” 

Ian can’t seem to hold back the grin spreading across his face, so he doesn’t. 

  
  


Later that day, Ian is dry-walling Lip’s shithole new house and sneaking glances at Fred’s pack-and-play to make sure that he’s still soundly napping. About the only good thing about being on the job hunt is that it gives him ample time to watch his baby nephew. Of course, because Lip is an asshole, he had also hadn’t minced words when he’d suggested that Ian lend his time to helping with the endless renovations to turn the living space into slightly less of a crumbling hovel. Ian, manic or not, never handles idle time without feeling as though he might jump out of his skin, so he isn’t complaining. 

After successfully putting Fred down, Ian had checked his phone in time to see that Ryan already sent him a long, rambling text message with several increasingly preposterous suggestions for his job search. Ian thinks one of the contacts he’d sent might have been from the very same scam Tech company that Lip had once interned at. Ian doesn’t want to touch that nonsense with a ten foot pole, but he also has the sneaking suspicion that he probably shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. 

When he’s ever feeling bitter about his job prospects, he can’t help but think about the fact that Mickey had willingly put on a pastel polo shirt and khakis for the sake of a regular paycheck and maintaining his parole. 

Ian’s fingers are itching for a cigarette, but he knows that if super-dad Lip found out he’d smoked in front of his kid he’d probably let Tami stab Ian to death with one of those stupid stiletto heels she likes to wear. 

Luckily, Lip chooses that moment to come home, creaking the door shut behind him, surrounded by a flurry of snowflakes. 

“You’re off work early,” Ian greets him. 

“Turns out pussies in this city don’t wanna ride their bikes through the snowpocalypse.” 

“Snowpocalypse?” Ian smirks. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Lip shoots back, leaning over to check on Freddie. He smiles down at his son in a frighteningly paternal way. “Don’t give me shit after I just bought this for your ungrateful ass.” Lip tosses him a frost-bitten pint of ice cream.

“Rum raisin? Gee thanks, grandpa.” Ian inspects the carton, dubiously. 

“It was on sale. Excuse me for trying to save money for my kid.” Lip opens a drawer in the empty kitchen and pulls out a couple of bent spoons. When he wrenches the drawer closed again, a handful of paint chips and splinters shower onto the ground. They both pointedly ignore this. 

Lip hands over one of the spoons while Ian pulls off the plastic covering from the carton. 

“Dinner of champions,” Ian toasts. 

They pass the container back and forth in companionable silence for a couple of minutes. 

“Hey, happy one-month wedding anniversary.” Lip muses, suddenly. Ian looks sharply at him. 

“Jesus, you’re keeping track? This isn’t fucking middle school, I’m not gonna go buy flowers and shit every month we’ve been together.” Lip just half-smiles crookedly. 

“AA thing, I guess. I’m always counting days and months now,” he explains wryly. 

“Ah.” Neither of them mention Lip’s slip-up on the wedding day. He’d told Ian about it after announcing that the move to Milwaukee was cancelled, but since then they’ve been dancing around it. Now, it’s hanging in the air, and Ian doesn’t care for that shit. 

Instead of speaking, Ian just eats a bite of ice cream so big that he spends thirty seconds fighting back massive brain-freeze. 

“You know, this might be the longest a Gallagher marriage has lasted,” he jokes at last, against the very real dread that is creeping in the pit of his stomach. 

Lip huffs out a laugh. 

“Yeah, what’s Fiona’s record?” he says, “Like twenty-four hours and change?” Ian lets out a low laugh, too. “Fuck, we should give you a medal or some shit.” 

“Did Sean even count? You know, maybe I’ll send Fi a thank-you card. She set the bar so low for Gallagher marriages, makes the rest of us look better.” Lip smirks at the thought. 

They both fall into silence again. Fiona’s absence still smarts, a hurt that even shitting on her comically heinous relationships doesn’t quite disguise. 

“You think you’ll ever stop counting days and shit?” 

“Eh, maybe after I stop counting hours,” Lip replies. “Brad says it doesn’t really go away, and he’s been doing this way longer than I have.”

“Fuckin’ sucks.” 

Lip fixes Ian with a hard look. 

“Not so bad. Keeps me living in the moment.” His eyes flash over to Fred. 

“Sounds like bullshit.” Lip just gives Ian a hard push on the shoulder. 

“That’s what I thought, too, when I started. I wanted to throw hands when I went to my first meeting. Maybe you should go to a meeting, get enlightened.” Ian takes a moment trying to figure out whether Lip is being serious or not. 

“Pretty sure I don’t meet the entry requirements. No offense.” Lip blows out a breath. 

“Well, I’ve heard there’s this thing kinda like AA but for mental cases like you. Hmmm, fuck, what’s it called again?” Lip returns. Ian feels a flare of annoyance, so he stands up and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Lip stands up, too, and grabs the pack out of his hands. 

“Me first.”

“Thought you were quitting.” 

“Living in the moment. In this moment I wanna smoke. Watch Fred.” Lip brushes past him and stalks out to the front steps, leaving Ian standing in his wake. 

When Ian walks back into the Gallagher house that night, it is after a prolonged chain-smoking session on Lip’s porch that doesn’t seem to even vaguely cut into this lingering tension he can’t seem to shake. 

Unfortunately, the scene that he walks into makes it very clear that tonight isn’t going to be the kind of night where he gets to lay back and unwind. Carl is sitting on the kitchen table, extending out his arm for Debbie, who is dabbing at it with a bloody rag. Mickey is slumped over at the kitchen table, holding a bag of peas to his forehead. He’s got the beginnings of a nasty set of bruises on his face. Franny

is standing on her tiptoes on a stool stirring chili at the stove, seemingly oblivious to the carnage in the room. 

“Ugh, thank fuck you’re here,” Debbie calls out, briefly halting her scrubbing of Carl’s wound. 

“Jesus Debs, you’re gonna rip a layer of skin off if you keep doing it like that!” Ian jogs over to take over the triage. Carl grunts in pain when his arm is jostled in the process.

“What the hell happened here?” Ian demands, already feeling his EMT training kicking back into gear as he quickly assesses the damage. Definitely stitches are in order. He’s gotta make sure Carl doesn’t also have any broken bones. “Wiggle your fingers for me,” he commands. Carl frowns, but does so wincingly. 

“Yeah, why don’t you fuckers explain to Ian how you just auditioned for the Idiot Olympics,” Debbie demands. Carl and Mickey look at each other, clearly each hoping the other will take the lead. Finally, Mickey speaks up. 

“Just went to let off some steam, do some donuts in a parking lot,” he explains, speaking as though it hurts to move. “Slippery as a mother out there.” Goddammit, he’s actually smiling fondly at the memory. Ian wants to throttle them both. 

“With what car?” For a brief, sickening flash he pictures them spinning out in Tami’s car. 

“Got it from Iggy, don’t worry about it -” 

“Oh, yeah, you guys driving a  _ stolen car _ makes me feel all better. Thank you!” Ian grits out. Debbie looks as though she feels similarly murderous. 

“Mommy, it’s bubbling!” Franny calls. Debbie steps in to help her daughter at the stove, not breaking her glare at her brother. 

“Do either of you guys even have a valid driver’s license?” 

Mickey makes an indignant noise.

“Fuck you,” Carl pulls out a driver’s license from his pocket. Ian pockets it, to Carl’s loud protests. 

“You got this from crashing whatever piece of shit junker Iggy had on hand?” Ian gestures to Carl’s open gash. 

“Nah, hopped a fence after.” Ian pictures police lights and a wild chase and sees red. 

“Found it!” Liam comes loping in, holding the Gallagher emergency first aid kit. 

“Thanks, buddy.” Ian grabs the kit and rummages through for some peroxide and gauze. “Do me a favor - literally anything that Carl does, please do the exact opposite.”

“Noted.” Liam hands him a needle and thread. 

“Hey, Debs, how do you feel about doing some stitches?” Debbie gives Carl an evil look and reaches out for the supplies. 

“Gladly. Let me find a Youtube tutorial.” Carl blanches. 

Ian finally directs his attention to Mickey, rounding the table and leaning down to assess the damage. He gently grabs at the frozen bag of peas to examine Mickey’s head. Initially, he can tell that while Mickey’s pupils are crazy dilated, they are visibly even. 

“You hit your head?” He asks, adopting on the quiet, even tone that was a staple as an EMT. 

“No shit, Sherlock.” Mickey grimaces as Ian gingerly angles his face upward. Ian slowly feels for any open wounds, starting at the short cropped hair at Mickey’s neck all the way up to the little knot of scar tissue around his hairline. When his fingers come back bloodless, he relaxes fractionally. 

“You probably have a concussion.” 

“Oh yeah? Says you, bitch,” Mickey counters, reaching for the frozen peas again. 

“Irritability is a concussion symptom.” 

“It’s also a symptom of getting nagged by my bitchass husband.” 

“Not my fault I don’t particularly feel like being a prison wife. Or being married to a vegetable after you finally lose the last couple braincells you’ve got.” 

Carl makes a strangled noise as Debbie pokes him especially hard with the needle, halfway through a crooked stitch job. 

“God, Vee is so much better at this, couldn’t we have got her to come over?” 

“Really think you should be sassing the woman holding the sharp object, idiot?” Debbie barks. 

“Franny, can you start setting the table? We’re still going to have dinner like a civilized, law-abiding family.” 

Everyone in the room exchanges a dubious look. 

“Go help Franny, Mick,” Ian prods him to get up. “Gotta exercise those last few brain cells.” Mickey shoots him a glare, but ultimately chooses to comply, gingerly pulling himself up only to stagger back against the wall, scrambling for purchase. 

“Jesus -” Ian yelps, managing to steady him. 

“I got it,” Mickey protests. 

“You haven’t got shit,” Ian pulls him towards the stairs, steering him by his shoulders. “Screw the brain cells, you’re gonna sleep this one off.” Mickey doesn’t protest any further, clearly occupied fully by an attempt to fight against the spins. 

He pulls Mickey up the stairs and into their room and promptly sits him down on their bed. Mickey rubs at the side of his face that isn’t a mess of bruises and shucks off his boots. 

“You should go down and eat dinner with your family.” Ian feels an electric shot of irritation course down his arms. He doesn’t feel like being told what to do. He doesn’t feel like eating dinner with his family. 

Honestly, all he feels like right now is an orgasm and then eight hours of blissful unconsciousness. 

Mickey is like a bloodhound when it comes to sensing when he’s in the mood to get laid. Ian is standing in front of him at the perfect angle for him to reach out and start undoing his belt, which he enthusiastically does. 

“Come on, you really think you’re going to get some when your face looks like hamburger?” 

Mickey just palms Ian’s dick through his jeans and then gives him a smug leer. 

“How about you fix me up then?” 

It’s corny as fuck, but Ian’s always been weak for this. Utterly weak. He lets Mickey continue. 

“If you get a brain bleed and die, it’s not my fuckin’ fault.” 

“It’s how I’ve always wanted to go.” Ian laughs helplessly, but then it turns into an unintentional little noise of appreciation when Mickey gets his mouth on him. Ian gives himself away to the warm pleasure for about ten seconds before he automatically reaches a hand out for Mickey’s hair, which jostles his head just enough to make him recoil with a low groan. 

“Fuck, Mick-” 

“Goddammit Gallagher, just cut the manhandling and let me -” 

“Uh, nope. We’re gonna do it my way now,” Ian cuts him off. Mickey, apparently assuming that Ian isn’t insisting they stop in their tracks, just widens his eyes expectantly and doesn’t say anything. Ian quickly strips off his shirt and pulls his jeans the rest of the way off, then turns to Mickey. 

“Shut your eyes.” 

“Kinky motherfucker,” Mickey grumbles. He closes his eyes. 

“And shut the fuck up, too.” Mickey flips him off, but does what he’s told. 

Ian pulls off Mickey’s shirt as carefully as possible, trying to allow him to remain as still as he physically can. He pushes Mickey down until he’s laying across the bed, and then pulls Mickey’s sweatpants and boxers down and off his legs. He arranges a pillow carefully at the base of his neck, so that it’s in a comfortable position. He then pulls the blanket gently over Mickey's body, over his shoulders. 

“Still awake?” Ian asks. Mickey smiles dreamily. 

Ian gives him a gentle peck to his forehead. 

"Go the fuck to sleep," Ian commands, sitting back next to Mickey. He looks over at his husband and notices that he's looking up at him, his eyes shining. 

“Hey, you good?” Ian goes for levity because he knows that genuine concern is sure to blow up in his face. 

“Fuck off,” Mickey says, his voice thick. But he just closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, relaxing into the mattress. 

In hindsight, that moment should have been a very clear warning signal for how things were about to go spectacularly pear-shaped, but in the aftermath of a surprisingly tender moment, Ian settles to pull the comforter closer around Mickey, then decides he might as well join him. He slides under the blanket and throws an arm around Mickey. Ian half expects Mickey to make another ill-advised sexual advance now that they're laying close, but he just buries his head into the crook of Ian's neck. Ian, for his part, is half glad Mickey is doing what he's told, because he isn't totally sure he'd have the willpower to turn Mickey down. Holding onto that thought, he settles in and finds himself drifting, too.

They’ve missed dinner, and his meds. 

  
  


Maybe Ian is also unprepared for shit to hit the fan because the next day is actually good. It’s Sunday, so the whole family has an opportunity to lie low. He and Mickey spend the day pretty much vertical, except for a long run for Ian and an aborted attempt to cook dinner. 

Come Monday, Mickey wakes up with a headache, and Ian wakes up with a text. 

_ Hey. Sorry to reach out kinda out of the blue, but I was wondering if you would be willing to meet up and talk?  _

The text is from Trevor, who Ian hasn’t seen or heard from since his arrest. As typical of the times when he has been manic in the past, many of the memories from that time are jumbled at best, but he has an overwhelming sense that it was a complete shitshow. 

Ian stares at the message blankly for a while. He remembers hearing Trevor throw around the word  _ closure _ a shit ton while they were dating, so he suspects that it’s related to that type of bullshit.

Mickey stalks in and out of the room, searching for a clean pair of work pants before eventually settling for a pair he’d found crumpled in a corner on the floor. He’d dragged major ass getting out of bed, and now he’s going to be late. 

Mickey throws a spiteful glance at Ian, who’s still laying in bed and staring at his phone as though if he looks at it hard enough he can will the text away. 

“Take your meds yet?” Ian truly regrets the fact that he’d mentioned aloud that he’d forgotten them the other night. He doesn’t need Nurse Mickey to come back with a vengeance. 

“Yes.” Ian is feeling charitable, luckily for his husband.

Mickey gives Ian’s ankle a little squeeze before turning to head out. 

“Hey, hang on - want me to meet you after work? I’m going to be out there applying to jobs and shit anyway,” Ian asks. 

“Sure, call you when I get out.” With that, Mickey is on his way and Ian is left to his own devices. He has an interview at a crappy Mexican restaurant later, courtesy of his new PO, as well as the email for a social worker that Ryan told him would be totally down for an “informational interview,” whatever the hell that means. After that, he’s just planning to hit the streets with the newly minted resume that Lip had drawn up for him. It’s going to be a shit-ass day. 

He still has time before he has anywhere to be, so he pulls on his running gear and hits the pavement. But today, instead of his usual meditative mindset, Ian finds his mind drifting into dangerous territory. He thinks back to one of his first major manic episodes, during which he’d gone on runs where he felt he was flying through the streets. He’d probably traversed the greater part of Chicago during that time, often getting lost and then found time and time again. Sometimes he’d run so fast that he felt like his lungs would burst just because he could. 

Now, he just ambles his way through the same loop like clockwork. Today, as though his body is acting of its own accord, Ian finds himself stopping mid-stride, tapering off to a walk. He’s about a mile out from the house and he’s not even breathing that hard. He just feels weary. 

He walks the last mile home, unable to will himself to continue. 

Then he slogs through a lukewarm shower and manages to pull on some clothes in time to catch the L towards downtown. 

The restaurant his PO had directed him to is decrepit and its lunch rush consists solely of two red-eyed men nursing gigantic electric green margaritas at the bar. 

When he asks one of the gawky teenaged waiters where to find the manager, he gets a skeptical once-over and is immediately pointed towards the bar at a grizzled bear of a man sporting an actual handlebar mustache. He looks like Antonio Banderas if he’d hit the steroids hard and lost his soul in the process. The man receives him with a deep sigh, and wordlessly beacons Ian into a dingy back office. 

“Thanks for seeing me today,” Ian says. He awkwardly hands over his resume. The manager looks at it like the effort it will take to file it away to gather dust is honestly more than he wants to deal with today. He points at a rusty folding chair, indicating that Ian sit. 

“I’m going to be blunt with you, kid,” he growls, plopping down heavily into his own seat. He sounds like he’s a couple of years away from needing an iron lung. “Your PO and I used to be poker buddies. He’s a decent guy and I owe him a sum of money. I’m not interested in hiring crooks, but I gotta get square somehow. Got any relevant experience?” 

Ian blinks. His mouth is dry. 

“I worked at a diner, in the kitchen.” 

“That’s no good. I’m hiring for waiters. My waiters right now are shit.” 

Ian swallows. The manager’s eye bore down on him like lasers. 

“Ever worked in a Mexican restaurant before? You know how to mix a margarita?” 

“I know how to open a bottle of Corona,” Ian blurts. The manager gives him a sharp, disbelieving look. 

“Jesus,  _ cabrón _ , you want this job or not?” 

“Do I have to answer that?” Ian asks. A vein pops in the guy’s neck. 

“Alright, get the fuck out. I’ll give you a call at the end of the week if I can’t find a single law-abiding citizen for this job. You’re lucky this neighborhood’s a shithole so you might still have a shot.” 

“Thank you, sir,” Ian says flatly. He stands up and walks out. He nods at the young waiter on the way, daring him to try that judgy look one more time. Once he’s outside of the building he just keeps going. He walks aimlessly down the street trying desperately to wrap his head around the disastrous exchange. He feels like someone else inhabited his body for those couple of minutes. He wants to snap out of this creeping sense of unreality. 

He loses track of the number of blocks he walks before he manages to gather himself back together. He stops into a fast food joint to grab something to eat for lunch, sensing vaguely that it’s the smart thing to do. He bites into a lukewarm sandwich and only makes it through a few heavy bites before he dumps it unceremoniously into a trash can. 

The spends the rest of the day skulking around for Help Wanted signs and passing out his shitty resume to various uninterested service workers. By the time it’s started to get dark, he’s got a half-dozen dubious promises to be in touch and there’s a sickening pit in his stomach. Fortunately, it’s about ten minutes until Mickey is due to be off of his shift, and Ian’s only about a fifteen minute walk away. 

His spirits rise a little as he rounds the corner towards the entranceway where he typically meets up with Mickey. He desperately wants to simply share a smoke with him and just shit talk until he feels like a normal fucking person again. Just then, his phone rings. Speak of the devil. 

“Hey, Mick.” 

“ _ Hey - I got off early and I’m stopping at the liquor store on the way home. Anything you want? I’m just getting all the Jack I can carry outta this shithole. _ ” 

The pit in Ian’s stomach deepens, and now there’s a jolt of anger on top.

“What the fuck? I’m here to meet you at work. You already took off?” 

“ _ Jesus, gimme a little warning next time _ ?” 

“I literally told you this morning, dipshit.” 

There’s a pause on the other end of line. 

“You fucking forgot,” Ian accuses. 

“ _ Whatever, man. Just get your ass home.”  _ Mickey sounds thrown. 

“Be back in thirty.” 

“ _ You better. Love ya-” _ Mickey hangs up. 

Mickey’s sign off successfully kills the last dredges of irritation Ian was feeling. Now he just feels deflated. He’s met up with Mickey dozens of times after work, and he’s never forgotten before. And of all days, it had to be today. 

Ian sleepwalks through the commute home, unable to shake a lurking feeling of unease and defeat. 

It is fully dark and biting cold by the time he makes it back to his neighborhood. The second he walks in the door, he is immediately greeted by Franny, who rushes over to give him a big hug around his knees. She’s been more attached to him since he’s become essentially the head Gallagher babysitter and Debbie did a stint in jail, and her affection gives his heart a well-needed surge. 

“Wanna piggy back?” He asks, to which she responds with a squeal of glee. He scoops her up and deftly plants her on his shoulders. Franny giggles wildly and grabs fists of his hair for purchase as he swoops through the house to join the rest of the family in the kitchen. Ian gamely winces through as she loosens what is likely to be an entire tuft of his hair. By the stove, Debbie is busy taking a blackened casserole out of the oven.

“You better not break my daughter’s neck,” she cautions, but she’s smiling. 

“Hey, Ian,” greets Liam. He’s sitting at the kitchen table and scribbling at what looks like a math worksheet. 

“You want a ride next?” Ian offers jokingly, setting Franny down at her mother’s heels. 

“Don’t want you to break your back,” Liam responds, but Ian senses that he totally does want a piggyback ride, too. Before he can make any moves, Debbie smacks his shoulder with a spatula. 

“Hey - dinner time! Help me rally the troops?” 

“Oh, I think Lip’s having a date night with Tami, so they’re not coming tonight.” 

“They’re still together then, huh?” Ian snorts. Making fun of Tami and Lip’s tumultuous relationship is a sort of shorthand that he and Debbie have developed recently. 

“Looks like.” 

“Okay, don’t just stand around! Either help bring shit to the table or get your husband in here.” 

“Where is he?” Ian’s been distracted and totally forgot to seek out Mickey.

“Out back, I think.” 

It’s probably under fifty degrees out and windy outside, so Ian immediately heads out to retrieve him. Sure enough, Mickey is sitting on the steps, holding onto the stub of a cigarette and a generous glass of what Ian guesses is his newly purchased whiskey supply. Ian prods Mickey’s shoulder with the side of his boot to get his attention. 

“You’re late,” Mickey mumbles, looking up at Ian with half-lidded eyes. He staggers up into a standing position and leans against the railing, looking up at Ian expectantly. 

“Are you already fucking drunk?” Ian demands. Everyone in the Gallagher household typically sticks to beer on work nights. Mickey blows out an indignant breath in response. 

“Nah. Self-medicating. Head still hurts.” 

“Jesus, you ever heard of Advil?” 

“Fuck that shit, it messes up my stomach.” 

“Yeah, and this is totally a wiser choice.” Ian grabs the glass and downs the rest of it in one burning plug, mainly to see Mickey’s reaction. Predictably, Mickey looks thunderous. 

“Oh, so now you wanna get wasted? After you just busted my fucking balls?” Ian crosses his arms in response. 

“Gimme a break. My day was total shit. And, you know, my husband totally stood me up earlier.” Mickey’s brow somehow furrows even tighter. 

“Jesus fuck, I swear to god you gotta warn me, Gallagher.” 

“I fucking told you that I did-” 

“Look, how about I make it up to you later,” Mickey cuts him off using a tone that very clearly indicates the exact type of way he intends on making it up to Ian. Before Ian can react, the door to the back porch slams open and they both jump.

“You plan on keeping us waiting all night? Food’s getting cold!” Debbie yells, and then storms back into the kitchen. Mickey shoots Ian a long-suffering glance. 

“How long is she planning on keeping up the housewife-zilla shtick?” Mickey grumbles, squinting against the light from the open kitchen door. Ian rolls his eyes. 

“Give it two, maybe three weeks.” 

The rest of the night passes without much further damage. Debbie takes heat for her questionable cooking skills, Franny’s throws an uncharacteristic tantrum over a dinner roll, Carl saves the day by showing up late with a mysteriously obtained sheet cake, and Mickey spends the entire meal kneading at his temple so forcefully that Ian worries he’s going to take off a layer of skin. Overall, no natural disasters. 

Ian thinks that he’s overcome his earlier black mood after he and Mickey turn in early in order to have a couple of rounds of highly unambitious but ultimately satisfying sex. Unfortunately, it puts Mickey out like a light, leaving Ian to lay in the dark and let all of the various stresses of the day wash back over him. 

He scrolls through his messages on his phone, reading over Ryan and Trevor’s texts and trying to sum up the energy to respond to either of them. Ryan’s unfettered enthusiasm over his mythical job prospects is entirely at odds with the soul-crushing experiences of the day, and Trevor’s cryptic request still leaves him at a total loss. Even after how everything went to complete shit between them, Ian actually misses Trevor. He was always a great listener, and he knew how to have fun. 

Ian realizes he should probably tell Mickey if he’s going to meet up with one of his exes, and he mildly resents that idea. 

Which brings back him to Mickey. 

Mickey’s clearly been off these last couple days, and if he doesn’t start to improve soon, Ian knows he’s going to have to make some hard decisions. It feels strangely reminiscent of the time when Carl had cracked his head during a playground fight in elementary school. In the days after, he’d had one too many wild outbursts and seemed to struggle trying to walk up a flight of stairs. Finally, Fiona had gone against Monica’s dismissive claims that Carl was just being Carl and had scrounged for enough change in the couch cushions for a train ride to the clinic. Ian has had a lot of feelings about Fiona over the years, but he wouldn’t wish that responsibility on anyone. 

He opens Ryan’s latest text fully intending to craft a decent response. After fully fifteen minutes pass without being able to summon the energy to respond, he pulls up Trevor’s message and sends off the first thing that comes to his mind. 

_ when and where ? _

  
  


The next two days of the week are each progressively more difficult to navigate. By Wednesday, Ian’s PO asks to schedule with him a warning meeting to discuss the last-ditch employment options he has. Ian spends the larger part of the day summoning the energy to reschedule a meeting with Ryan’s social worker friend for the end of the week. Because this isn’t his first rodeo, Ian’s definitely getting the sense that he’s on the edge of a depressive episode, considering how much his entire body feels like it’s full of lead and deciding to make a sandwich for lunch seems like an insurmountable hurdle. 

He wants to live a little longer in denial. His current slew of medications has helped him weather previous downswings functionally, but it’s still just an impending storm ahead and he’s intimately aware of that unavoidable fact. 

Also around Wednesday evening Mickey’s headache becomes The Headache in Ian’s mind. He hasn’t exactly been forthcoming about it, but the way he hasn’t stopped wincing at bright lights or bitching through gritted teeth about every minor inconvenience is a certain tell that his pain level has not diminished. Ian is sure Mickey would rather receive another swift blow to the head than do anything more proactive about it than pop painkillers like candy with a hard liquor chaser. 

Wednesday night is also the time that Ian solidifies a plan with Trevor. They’re going to meet up at this hipster coffee shop and bookstore that Trevor and his friends always frequented. Ian’s not thrilled with the idea of going to a place where he could easily run into one of Trevor’s more judgy acquaintances, but he also wants to let Trevor take that reins on this one. 

Ian has slogged through finishing the night’s dishes with Debbie and even half-listened to her lengthy tirade about the world’s latest political grievances before he finally manages to break away in search of Mickey so that he can tell him about the impending meeting. However, once he wanders upstairs to their room, he finds Mickey sound asleep on top of the blankets with his head smashed into a cocoon of pillows. It seems as good a time as any to ignore the fact that it’s embarrassingly early to be going to sleep, so Ian peels off his clothes and gently pulls the comforter out from under Mickey. He tucks the blanket over both of them and folds himself around Mickey’s body, winding an arm around Mickey’s back and burying his nose into his short-cropped hair. 

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s slept so fitfully the last few days, or just how the familiar smell of Mickey’s shampoo allows him to finally relax, but Ian closes his eyes one second and the next time he opens his eyes he is alone and bright light is streaming through the window. 

His entire left arm is numb after sleeping like the dead, so he wiggles his fingers slowly in order to regain feeling while he reaches clumsily for his phone. Somehow, he has slept until almost 11:00am. He’s still weighed down by a heavy drowsiness. He closes his eyes and drifts back off. 

When he resurfaces again, it’s to the sound of vigorous knocking at his door. 

“Ian, you in there?” Shit. Debbie. Franny has a half day at school and Ian had mentioned yesterday that he’d potentially be able to come join them on an afternoon excursion into the city. Right now, he just can’t handle the idea of Franny seeing him acting like a total zombie. 

“Ah, sorry, Debs! I’m about to hop in the shower - got a last minute meeting with my PO!” He calls towards the door. His voice is still sleep rough, and the lie sounds insultingly blatant. 

“Whatever, flake! At least make dinner tonight - I’m gonna be late!” Debbie yells back. Ian thanks his lucky stars that Debbie is always all over the place. He closes his eyes again. He promises himself he’ll get up before noon, and then drifts off again. 

The next time he wakes up, it’s to the sound of heavy footfalls across the hall. It can only be Mickey, as he’s the only person in the family who hasn’t perfected the art of walking up and down those stairs without them sounding like they’re one footfall away from giving in. 

The door swings open unceremoniously, and Mickey almost jumps when he spots Ian lying in bed. Ian sits up quickly and gives Mickey a once over. He’s wearing his work clothes, and he’s still got that pinched look that means The Headache is still alive and well. 

“Jesus, it’s past noon. You’re still sleeping?” His low tone is another clear Headache tell. 

“That a crime now?” Is the only response that Ian can muster. He’s slept for over twelve hours, but he’s definitely too tired to deal with Mickey’s bullshit concern. “What are you doing home?” 

“They let me leave early,” is Mickey’s clipped response. He’s already untying the laces of his boots and avoiding eye contact. Ian feels his own jolt of concern. 

“Why?” 

“I dunno, must be my stellar performance.” Mickey thinks that showing up every day and on time counts as “stellar performance.” Ian shoots him a disbelieving look as Mickey hastily exchanges his slacks for a pair of sweatpants. 

“Got bad vertigo, so they sent me home. Shove over.” Mickey lowers himself next to Ian, lays flat and closes his eyes. 

“Vertigo?” The pit in Ian’s stomach is back with a vengeance. 

“You know, the spins?” 

“I know what it is, asshole. You’re acting like this happens every fucking day.” 

“Sure. Happens sometimes after a few of the other million times I’ve gotten my bell rung.” 

Ian just takes a minute to process this. Should it be comforting that vertigo is normal for Mickey in the aftermath of hitting his head or is it more concerning to think about how regular an occurrence concussions are for him? 

“You gonna tell me why you’re pulling a Rip Van Winkle today?” Mickey asks, not opening his eyes. 

“Fuck off, Mickey,” Ian means it, but still instantly regrets saying it. Mickey’s not exactly in the position to put up much of a defense. Besides, his return has actually provided Ian with the incentive he needed to make his first moves of the day. He swiftly slides out of bed in such a way to allow Mickey to remain still, and he throws on a clean t-shirt and jeans. He slides the curtains fully closed, and then makes for the doorway.

“Where are you going now?” Mickey whines. 

“Debbie’s out for the afternoon. Someone’s gotta do the housewife shit.” 

What he means is that Debbie’s laptop is free, so he can get up to some serious concussion research. 

Over an hour later, Ian seriously regrets doing any research at all. He’s managed to read through about every article on WebMD, some haunting testimonials, and watch an unnecessarily graphic Youtube video. 

“What are you reading?” Ian starts, and realizes that Liam is standing at the threshold of the kitchen, still wearing his school backpack. Ian takes this chance to slam the laptop closed. 

“WebMD.” 

“Oh. That’s always a mistake.” Liam begins to unpack his bag and organize all of his various homework folders. It’s still magical to Ian how methodical Liam is. His own school backpack used to be a shower of loose papers and broken pencils. 

“Wish I’d heard that an hour ago.” 

“Yeah, a few kids at my school were convinced last year that they had flesh-eating bacteria because of that website.” 

“No shit.” 

“Can you help me with my homework for health class?” Ian smiles. 

“If you grab me a beer first.” Liam gives him a put upon look, but that just makes Ian grin more. 

  
  


That night, buoyed by his afternoon with Liam and a successful dinner, Ian decides to come clean to Mickey about his plans with Trevor. It seems as good a time as any considering that he’d managed to bully him into taking a copious amount of Advil, rendering him pliant and sleepy enough for Ian to pull him into his lap in bed and card his hands through his hair. 

“Hey, Mick?”

“Mmmm?” 

“I’m gonna go get coffee with Trevor tomorrow.” Ian braces for impact. There is a silent moment where he swears he can hear the cogs in Mickey’s head turning. 

“The ex-boyfriend?” 

“Yeah.”

“The fuck you wanna do that for?” Mickey cranes his neck up to look at Ian. It’s hard to tell it’s just the Headache squint or if he’s glaring. 

“He wants to meet up, talk about how we left things or some bullshit.” 

“Just blow him off. He’s an asshole anyway.” Ian realizes that he hadn’t been incredibly charitable in describing Trevor to Mickey. They’d had a lot of free time to talk through shit in prison, and Trevor had inevitably come up. Ian definitely hadn’t pulled any punches in describing some of the greatest hits of their relationship. 

“Nah, I think I wanna go. He’s not a bad guy. You might even like him.” Mickey grimaces. 

“Whatever, Gallagher.” 

Another classic Mickey endorsement. Ian leans over to press a kiss to his forehead. 

  
  


The moment that Ian spots Trevor, he actually wishes Mickey had reacted more characteristically dramatic in opposition of his plan. Trevor is early, sitting at the front patio with two to-go cups. Ian is very skilled at demonizing people in his head after break-ups, so seeing his sweet face and his kind eyes is incredibly jarring. But Ian Gallagher is no pussy, so he strides up towards the table with purpose. 

“Hey,” he says. Trevor looks up, and about twenty different emotions pass over his face. 

“Hey.” He sounds nervous, but resolute. “Sit down?” 

Ian does. Trevor extends one of the cups. 

“It’s herbal tea. Thought you’d like this one.” As far as olive branches go, providing non-caffeinated beverages was always Trevor’s go-to move. Ian gives him a tight smile. 

“Thanks for meeting me,” Trevor says, studying his fingernails. 

“Yeah. What did you want to talk about?” Ian doesn’t want to spend too much more time with pleasantries. He very well could have gone about his life without this conversation ever happening, and he has the sense that Trevor knows this. 

Trevor takes in a long, deep breath. He looks up at Ian, and Ian can’t help but feel a twinge of that old affection. 

“I think I just wanted to apologize, really,” Trevor says, and Ian’s eyebrows shoot up towards his forehead. 

“For what?” It’s not quite that Ian can’t think of a few things his ex could apologize for, but he’s just not sure what Trevor considers worthy of in-person repentance. 

“First of all, I kinda ghosted. I should have been more supportive after all the shit you did for me.” 

“I was pretty busy. Didn’t really notice,” Ian was going for humor, but it just sounds bitter. He’s pretty sure Trevor knows about his extended trouble with the law and eventual prison sentence. Trevor’s expression darkens.

“Look, here’s the thing. I started seeing a therapist again, and I sorted through some of my shit.” Ian knows he must be making an incredulous face, which Trevor studiously ignores. 

“Good for you.” 

“I think after my transition, I was just really trying to let nothing bother me. I thought everything would be chill, but it… It wasn’t. A lot of the transphobic shit got to me more than I let on, and I did some stupid stuff to pretend I wasn’t feeling like shit.” 

Ian hadn’t forgotten Trevor’s capacity for emotional honesty, but it’s been a while since he’s witnessed someone lay out their feelings in such a concise and direct manner. It actually sends a stab of regret through his core. He and his family had definitely fucked up a lot when it came to Trevor’s identity, but he’d always handled it with a tired sort of nonchalance that Ian had thought it really didn’t bother him. 

“Okay,” is all he can say. Luckily, Trevor seems to pick up on his gentler tone. 

“Plus after the shit with your ex, and how we never really talked about it… I guess I’m just trying to say that by the end I really didn’t treat you like a friend. I thought if we went back to fucking, it would make me feel better somehow, but that totally wasn’t fair.” 

“Hey,” Ian starts, really not knowing what he’s going to say. “I’m sorry, too.” 

Trevor looks surprised. It should almost be insulting. 

“I really went pretty far off the deep end. I can’t blame you for wanting to jump ship.” Ian smiles without any real humor. Trevor looks like he’s flashing back to one of Ian’s more insane moments, which is not a pleasant look for Ian to witness. He takes a big sip of tea, then chokes mildly when it takes like bitter rot. Trevor actually chuckles quietly. 

“That good, huh?” 

“What the fuck is this?” Ian lifts the lid off of the cup to take a tentative sniff. 

“My bad. I forgot how unrefined your palette is.” 

“It takes like ass.” Trevor looks like he’s trying very hard not to make an ass-eating joke. They both know it’s too soon. 

“So, how have you been?” Trevor gives him a little one-over. “You look good.” He’s clearly taking advantage of the momentary lapse in crippling tension between them. Ian knows he looks tired as hell, but he appreciates the compliment. He’s definitely gained some muscle since Trevor has seen him last, and Trevor appears to have taken note if his wandering eyes are any indication. He contemplates co-opting Mickey’s old line about the benefits of the prison yard workout plan, but then he decides to take a different route. 

“I got married.” Trevor doesn’t do a spit take, but it’s a close thing. Ian starts playing nervously with his wedding ring. 

“Wait, are you serious?” Trevor asks, once he’s recovered marginally. “Didn’t you always say that straight people could keep marriage to themselves?” 

“Some shit went down. Things changed, I guess.” Trevor purses his lips, seems to contemplate exactly what might prompt the one-eighty. There are a couple of moments of silence, which are so loaded that it prompts Ian to blurt out something risky. 

“I married Mickey.” Ian knows that this might be a lot to throw at Trevor, but he feels like he’d be almost lying by omission if he didn’t come clean. Trevor blinks, then runs his hands through his wild hair. 

“Fuck.” He looks away, scrubbing at his mouth. Ian doesn’t know what else he can say. Finally, Trevor looks back at him, eyes searching. 

“Are you happy with him? Is he -” Ian realizes that Trevor is trying to find a polite way to ask if Mickey is being good to him, to make sure that he’s not trapped into a relationship with a crazy, ex-con psychopath who’s basically holding him at gunpoint. Ian’s mildly annoyed at the assumption, but also impressed at Trevor’s selfless desire to make sure he’s safe being married to the guy he cheated on him with.

“Yeah.” Ian states, and it’s the truth. Trevor blows out a laugh. 

“You know, that actually makes me feel better, somehow,” he admits. He starts ripping off the label from his cup. 

“What are you talking about?” 

“When you ran off to be with him, I took it pretty hard. But if you like, love him or shit? It’s fucked up, but it really does make it a little better.” 

“Trev, I’m sorry -” 

“No, I’m serious, though. What’s it like?” 

“What’s what like?” 

“Being fucking married!” Ian considers this. He feels like they’ve both gone way into the danger zone in this conversation, but Trevor does seriously seem good. Like he means what he’s saying, as fucked up as it may be. 

“I just feel like I’m myself when I’m with him.” The words come out of nowhere. Trevor smiles, somewhere between bitter and relieved. There is another beat of silence. 

“You seem good, too,” Ian throws out, lamely. Trevor pulls a face. 

“Like I said, I’ve been working through a lot of my shit. A lot of that shit involved you.” Trevor somehow manages to make this not sound like a super petty accusation, which Ian thinks is goddamn impressive. 

“I wish we could just undo literally everything and start over.” Ian tells him. Trevor sighs. 

“Maybe.” 

They end up shooting the breeze for another half hour. After their initial conversation trajectory, it feels intensely superficial, but Trevor has always been easy to talk to and very about sharing his strong opinions on music and clubs and stupid shit like that. When they finally part ways, they don’t make any promises to catch up again. Their sign off feels oddly formal. Still, Ian is left with a distinct sense that the door to friendship might actually be open in the future. It’s weird. 

After Ian’s encounter with Trevor, he has to go to his meeting with Ryan’s social worker friend. He’d managed to avoid getting anxious about it through having precisely zero expectations, but it ends up being better than he expected. The social worker keeps the sanctimonious speeches to a minimum, and actually sets him up with some information about getting into the field and leaves him with a number for someone from HR. 

After he’s done with all of that, Ian is completely drained. Once again, he finds himself in the neighborhood of Mickey’s work, so he wanders over to their meeting spot and smokes on a bench for a while. Luckily, Mickey actually appears right on time, already flicking his lighter to have his own post-work cigarette. 

“Hey!” Ian calls. Mickey turns his way, and his face softens when he sees Ian. 

“What the fuck did I say about giving a guy some warning?” He complains, but he throws an arm around Ian’s neck. 

“It’s called a surprise, dick.” Ian smacks him with a kiss. Someone wolf-whistles across the street, and they both flip the finger towards the sound without looking over. They start weaving together through the evening crowd towards the nearest L stop. 

“How was your day?” Mickey asks between drags of his cigarette. 

“My coffee with Trevor actually went pretty well, plus the interview wasn’t total bullshit -” 

“Wait- you tellin’ me you actually hung out with your ex today?” Ian might have had the patience for this attitude this morning, but he definitely doesn’t now. 

“Yeah, Mick. I told you I was gonna. Got a problem with it?” Ian scans Mickey’s face to try and surmise just how pissed he is. 

“As your fucking husband I think it’s my fucking job to have a problem with that shit.”

“Pretty sure it’s not. I told you, we basically screwed each other over. He just wanted to air out some shit, that’s it.” 

Mickey gives him a hard look, then glances off towards the increasingly decrepit houses of the surrounding neighborhood. He blows out a slow stream of smoke. 

“That’s the thing. Why are you buying into that pussy bullshit? Shit’s in the past. What’s done is done - you don’t owe anybody anything.” Ian’s surprised by just how bitter Mickey sounds. He tries to meet his eye, but Mickey is now looking pointedly ahead. Ian has a suspicion that Mickey isn’t just talking about Trevor. 

“Don’t see why you gotta make with the Ian Gallagher greatest hits apology tour thing.” Mickey stops for a second to put out his cigarette butt under his shoe, then shoves his hands into his pockets. 

Ian can’t conjure the words to explain himself. He can barely understand his own increased obsession with the past. He wishes he shared Mickey’s utilitarian focus on the present, but he just doesn’t. He can’t make Mickey see it his way. 

At Ian’s silence, Mickey just shakes his head. 

“Tell me about the stupid interview, then.” 

Ian’s almost disappointed that Mickey doesn’t press the issue because he knows he’s still pissed. He tells Mickey about the social work interview until they reach the L, after which Mickey spends the entire ride milk-white and swallowing convulsively. Apparently the motion brings back his vertigo with a vengeance. Ian fields a lot of death glares from fellow passengers who clearly think Mickey is off his ass drunk as he carefully leads his husband out of the train and towards the house. Mickey is silent and focusing intently on his breathing the entire way, and Ian feels like the biggest asshole on the planet. 

Mickey plops bonelessly down on the couch as soon as he gets into the door. Liam is watching a basketball game on the other end of the couch. When he catches a glimpse of Mickey’s ghost white face, he turns the volume down by half. Mickey gives Ian a challenging look, daring him to say something nagging. Ian just ruffles Liam’s hair and pulls a beer out of the fridge and deposits it into Mickey’s lap. Mickey’s eyebrows skyrocket, but a corner of his mouth slides upward. 

Ian is about to treat himself to a beer himself when Lip bursts in through the door. 

“Ian, excellent. I need you to come help me with the place. Having a drywall emergency.” 

“Come on, man. Can’t that shit wait? Carl’s gonna be home soon, ask him.” Ian protests. 

“Not asking, little brother. C’mon, BYOB,” Lip indicates towards his beer. Ian rolls his eyes, looks down at Liam and Mickey for support. Liam shakes his head. 

“Happy fuckin’ trails,” Mickey mumbles around his beer bottle. 

Reluctantly, Ian follows Lip out the door and down the alley towards his new place. Lip doesn’t say anything for most of the walk over. 

“Long day?” He asks, breaking the silence.

“Unbelievably,” Ian mutters. “About to be longer.” He eyes Lip’s place with distaste, especially the large and overfilled dumpster in the back. 

Lip’s “emergency” turns out to be a crack in the ceiling that he needs Ian’s help to reach to fill in. After they make quick work of it, Lip pulls out a couple of cherry sodas from a mini fridge and beckons Ian over to a new ratty couch that he probably pulled off of a street corner somewhere. 

“Like it?” Lip pats the cushion next to him invitingly. Ian gives it a dubious look. 

“Sorry, I’m not up on my tetanus shot. Probably shouldn’t risk it.” Lip rolls his eyes and smirks. 

“With our childhood? If you aren’t immune to tetanus by now your ass would have been six feet under years ago.” Ian just shakes his head, letting out a small laugh in agreement. He opens his soda and takes a pull, leaning against the doorway across from his brother. 

“Got something on your mind?” Lip asks. Ian doesn’t even know where to start. He just throws Lip a helpless look. 

“You know, I think I might have spoken too soon on the marriage thing. I think I’m fucking it all up,” he admits. He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and he hopes Lip can’t hear how shaky it is from all the way across the room. Lip just looks up at him seriously, expectant. 

“Fiona-level shit or Frank and Monica shit?” The mere mention of The Frank and Monica Show sends a shiver of panic down Ian’s spine. He forces himself to scoff. 

“God, maybe I’m just being fuckin’ crazy. Nothing like that. Just now Mickey’s pissed because I met up with Trevor.” 

“Trevor? Your ex Trevor?” Lips asks. Ian suddenly really doesn’t want to even attempt to explain, but he’s already in too deep. 

“I don’t know, man. But Mickey’s still fucking concussed as shit and I don’t know what the fuck to do about that.” Lip shifts on the couch and seems to mull it over. 

“Don’t you just have to wait that shit out? That’s always what we did with Carl. Thank fuck he’s got the world’s thickest skull, though.” 

“That’s another mistake - I did some reading and it turns out there’s this thing where head injuries can compound or some shit. This one might have just been the start of something way worse, and sometimes it doesn’t go away.” Ian feels like he’s in a fucking confessional. All of the fears he’s been sitting on are bubbling to the surface. 

“I can believe Mickey’s had a few concussions before,” Lip muses darkly. Ian feels like he’s an inch away from losing it, so he just forges on. 

“Lip, you remember how I told you ages ago that Terry caught me and Mickey together, back when we were kids?” Lip looks at him, his brows knitting together. 

“Sure, yeah? Didn’t he beat the shit out of you guys?” Lip’s got that hard expression about him that people tend to get whenever Mickey’s Nazi of a father is mentioned. Ian tries to pull in a full breath, but there’s something heavy sitting on his chest. 

“Yeah. He was fucking psychotic. He hit Mickey so hard, he was just -” and suddenly his eyes are swimming, but he wants to get this out. “He was just laying there, and his eyes were open but he was totally out of it. Lip, I thought he was fucking dead for a minute.” Lip doesn’t say anything, just watches Ian’s face carefully and waits for him to go on. Ian takes another painfully short, steadying breath. 

““I have no idea why I’m still even thinking about all of this old shit. I just... I feel like if Mickey’s got actual fucking permanent brain damage or something from all that shit that happened, it’s gotta be my fucking fault.” Lip looks like he’s going to say something, but Ian doesn’t want him to try and console him. 

“He’s my fucking husband now. I should be able to fix it, or at least help! But I just keep making it worse.” 

Lip takes this moment to stand up from the couch and stride over to Ian. He puts a hand on Ian’s shoulder, squeezes it and gives it a firm little shake. 

“Ian, that’s some seriously heavy shit.” Ian laughs wetly, because it sounds like the understatement of the year. Lip smiles fractionally at Ian’s reaction. He leans against the doorway opposite Ian, matching his posture. 

“Plus, I’m pretty sure you aren’t making it worse.” Ian looks away, moves a quick hand up to brush away some of the moisture from his eye. Tries to get himself together. 

“Hey, I’m serious. It makes no fucking sense, but Mickey Milkovich is fucking  _ gone _ on you, man. He’s lucky to have you. You guys’ll figure it out.” 

Ian really isn’t sure, but he doesn’t want to argue any more. Lip’s unending and misguided faith in him is always a hard pill to swallow. 

They both sip at their sodas. Lip looks contemplative. 

“You should call Fiona. I think she mighta scammed Carl to get into some brain specialty clinic after he almost flunked out of third grade.”

“Oh yeah,” Ian breathes. “God, how the hell did she pull that one off?” 

“Search me.” Lip claps Ian on the side of the arm. 

“We’ve got your back. You can let yourself off the fucking hook for a second.” Ian doesn’t believe for a millisecond that he can let himself off the hook, but with Lip’s eyes boring down into him, he does feel like he can breathe a little easier. 

“Thanks,” Ian says, quietly. 

“Oh, also,” Lip pulls out his wallet and takes out a bright yellow card. “Got this from some lame employee giveaway at work that Brad cooked up.” 

“The hell is this?” Ian asks as he examines the card. 

“Gift card to some restaurant downtown. Good for like fifty bucks. Take Mickey, have a date night.”

Ian looks at the card again, somewhat thrown by the gesture. 

“Thanks, I guess.” 

“Good. Now come help me pull up some tiles from the upstairs bathroom.” 

  
  


Per Lip’s request, on Friday night Ian and Mickey journey downtown to get dinner at a tiny little Chinese restaurant - the type that does mainly takeout, leaving the shoddy dining area entirely empty except for them and an ancient man in the corner who is either asleep or dead. The lights are thankfully dim in a grasp at ambiance, but Mickey still has that pinched look about him that makes it clear that the Headache hasn’t truly subsided. Ian’s having trouble focusing on the menu in front of him. As a pair, they are all kinds of pathetic. It’s a miracle that they even manage to successfully order food. 

After the waiter deposits a steaming pile of rice and lo mein in front of them, Ian gathers the wherewithal to confront Mickey. But before he has a chance to open his mouth, Mickey breaks in. 

“I gotta ask you something.” He’s got a wild, determined look in his eyes, a look which typically either precedes a swiftly delivered punch or one of his deranged versions of a romantic gesture. 

“Sure?” Ian has a sneaking suspicion that this is going to piss him off. He tries to school his expression neutral. 

“Will you go see a shrink?” Mickey says this with the same tone someone might use if they were asking someone if they’d start taking out the trash when it was their turn. His mouth is set in a grim line, and he’s looking at Ian through his eyelashes. Ian drops his chopsticks so he can lean back in this seat and cross his arms. 

“The fuck are you asking me to see a fucking shrink for? I see a shrink. How do you think I get all my fucking meds?” 

Mickey throws up a dismissive hand and blows out a breath.

“Yeah, asshole. I know that. I’m talking about a regular thing. Once a week or some shit.” 

“Fuck you, Mickey! Why are you acting like I’m falling apart here? I’m just trying to get a shitty job so I don’t get sent to fucking prison, I gotta watch out for my niece and little brother because my sisters are always losing their shit, and my husband has fucking head trauma. Aren’t I allowed to be a little low without everyone losing their minds?” Ian hadn’t expected to get so worked up, but his chest is heaving a bit. 

“Excuse me, I was wondering how you’re finding your dinners?” Ian and Mickey are engaging in an intense stare-down such that they hadn’t noticed a flustered waiter appear beside their table, glancing nervously and sweatily between them. 

“Fucking fantastic. Even better if you fucked off in the next two seconds,” Mickey grits out. The waiter pales and spins around to leave after a curt nod. Ian gives him a mild disbelieving look, but can’t shake the fact that he suddenly feels like he’s under a microscope in the tiny restaurant. He’s not sorry that the waiter made a swift exit. 

“You even have any idea how much one goddamn trip to a therapist costs without insurance? How the fuck would we even pay for it?” Ian challenges. “Why would you want me to waste money on that bullshit?” 

Mickey looks like it seriously pains him to take this line of argument, but Ian knows that means he’s even less likely to back down now. 

“I’ve been doing some reading online. Turns out seeing a shrink can actually be more helpful than taking medication for bipolar shit.” 

“What, so you’re an expert now? Got an MD from Google?” Ian stabs a chopstick into a piece of sesame chicken with absolutely not intent of actually eating it. Mickey chews on his bottom lip. This isn’t the first time he’s heard that piece of advice. Honestly, arguing against therapy feels increasingly pointless after the slews of evidence piling up against him. Ian’s just really sick and tired of his family treating him like his brain is a live wire. 

“Even if it wasn’t pointless,” he concedes, “we can’t be throwing money around like some rich Northside assholes, and if we did have money to burn we’d spend it on something fucking important.” 

“What the fuck is more important?” 

“School shit for Liam! Savings for the next time someone else needs to get bailed out of jail!” Ian’s mind is working overtime. “We could get our own place.”

Mickey stiffens at his last point. The corners of his mouth twitch. They’ve been married for over a month now, and the concept of them finding a space of their own has never once come up. Yet another sign of how deeply fucked they are. 

“We could get you to a specialist, about your concussion,” Ian adds, knowing that bringing up an even touchier subject is the only way to avoid the previous one. As planned, Mickey pulls a face. 

“I fucking told you, it’s fine. It’ll clear up on its own eventually.” 

“Oh yeah? How’s that going so far?” 

“Super, thanks for asking.” Mickey crosses his arms to match Ian. The food at the table is starting to get cold and congealed, but neither of them is about to make any moves to actually eat any of it. “The money thing is a shit excuse, that’s all I’m saying.” 

“You sitting on a massive inheritance I don’t know about? Otherwise, I’m pretty sure it’s the only excuse that matters.” 

“Money never seems to be that much of an issue in your fucking family.” 

“What the hell are you talking about? We’ve been poor as dirt my whole life!” Ian’ starting to wonder if the concussion somehow erased Mickey’s entire long term memory, glossing over the bits where the Gallaghers constantly struggled to pay the water bill, or drum up enough funds for weekly Hamburger Helper. 

Mickey leans back and glances away. He looks like a teacher who’s about to explain something to a petulant child for the twentieth time. 

“Yeah, dipshit. But growing up you guys always somehow managed to cough up enough cash to make it to field trips and shit. Your dad is the biggest good-for-nothing lowlife I’ve ever seen, but somehow he’s always cruising around in a fucking Cadillac every other week like fucking Bill Gates.”

“Frank’s a useless bottom feeder. If you’re seriously telling me I should take a page out of his miserable playbook, I’m gonna start to get pissed off, Mickey.” 

“Do I gotta spell it out for you, Gallagher? Yeah, we got dealt a shit hand, but that doesn’t mean we gotta sit around with our dicks in our hands. S’ far as problems go, this one ain’t shit. There’s loads of ways to get cash.”

Ian raises his eyebrows. “Legal ways?”

“Those too.” 

Ian really, seriously, wants to fight back. Mickey has managed to frame the entire situation as though it’s as simple as knocking down a couple of corner stores to scrap together some cash. Ian thinks it’s almost certainly crap, but he wants to lean into the idea so badly. 

“Excuse me, can I get you anything else?” A different waiter has materialized this time, equally sweaty as the last one. 

“Yeah, can we get this to go, please?” Ian asks quickly, before Mickey has a chance to terrorize the poor waiter. The waiter nods tightly and then deftly removes the various untouched plates from the table. When he returns with a couple of stuffed plastic bags for them, Ian hands over the gift card and a twenty dollar bill on top. 

“Ready to go?” Mickey looks like he’s been jonesing to leave for the past fifteen minutes, so he just stands up and pulls on his jacket by way of response. 

Side by side, they walk out of the front door and into the gusting wind. Despite the gales, it’s actually unseasonably warm for late November in Chicago. Ian exchanges the plastic bags to his left hand so that he can wind his fingers through Mickey’s as they make their way down the street. Mickey gives his hand a squeeze, and Ian’s heart does the same little leap that it still always does when he gets to have these open moments of affection. Mickey leans towards him so that their shoulders are brushing as they walk. 

“Carl’s gonna eat all this shit the second we put it in the fridge,” Ian muses. Mickey makes a vague noise in agreement. 

“Hold up,” Mickey says suddenly. He breaks Ian’s hold and strides into a convenience store. Ian humors him, and lights up a cigarette while leaning against the side of the building and waits patiently. It only takes Mickey a couple of minutes to emerge with a small bag. 

“What’s this?” Ian asks. Mickey pulls out a couple of tall beer cans in paper bags and hands one to Ian. After Ian accepts it, he pulls out a box of Ritz crackers. 

“Anniversary dinner.” Mickey cracks open his can and takes a long sip. “Got a problem with it?” 

Ian cracks open his can and taps it against Mickey’s. Mickey smiles like a dork. 

“Nope.” 

They amble over through the little park beside the River, sipping at their drinks in companionable silence until they find a park bench. The wooden slats are freezing through Ian’s jeans, but there’s a growing warmth in his stomach from the cheap beer, and Mickey’s sitting close enough that he can feel the ghost of his breath. Mickey hands Ian a sleeve of crackers.

Ian’s appetite has been for shit lately, but the salty sweet crackers are just bland and simple enough to munch on mindlessly. Ian is aware that Mickey knows this through hard-fought trial and error, after all the times he’s near about lost his mind trying to find something that might draw Ian out of his depressive spells. And god, Ian had hated Mickey some of those times. He’d flat out resented his relentlessness and utter lack of subtlety in trying to take care of him. 

But right now, sitting here together watching the street lights illuminating the river over Old Style beer and cheap snacks, it kind of feels like one of the most romantic moments of his life. After all this time, there’s something that still fucking moves him about having the ability to sit public with his partner. Mickey’s head is leaning towards the crook of his neck, and his gloved hand is resting on Ian’s knee. It’s as though there’s magnetic pull created by the years spent suffering from a deep conviction that moments like this could never really be theirs. Because he can, Ian pulls Mickey’s face towards his and kisses him, hard. 

Their mouths are dry from the salty crackers, but the way Mickey utterly melts into him more than makes up for it. 

The park is all but empty, so there’s nothing at all to stop them from making out like teenagers. After all, they’ve still got a lot of time to make up for.

  
  


The next Monday, while sitting at the kitchen table and sipping on an afternoon cup of coffee, Ian receives a call from the manager of the Mexican restaurant begrudgingly informing him that he has the job. He expresses his mild thanks, accepts, and hangs up. 

Ian knows the next thing he needs to do is call his PO officer, then tell his family. He should probably feel happy, or relieved. Or something. But if anything, the news makes him feel flat. He’s a parolee who just got another dead-end job. Even reaching for his dream job is still unattainable.

Ian Gallagher, waiter. 

By the time he finds the energy to move, his coffee is down to stone cold dregs. The first thing he does is email his parole officer. Then he texts Debbie to tell her about the job. 

He really only texts Debbie because he knows she will immediately spread the news like wildfire. He doesn’t want to have to tell any more people than necessary. Smiling back at their well-meaning congratulations sounds exhausting. 

So he wraps himself in his coat and trundles out of the back door to sit on the bottom of the steps. He ignores the biting wind chill and smokes consecutive cigarettes until he’s dimly aware of the lights flipping on in the kitchen window above him and he can hear the faint sound of pans clattering and muffled voices. It feels like no time passes before he hears the grinding creak of the door open and then slap shut. He hears a couple of heavy footfalls on the stairs, and then he manages to look over to see who it is. 

“The fuck are you doing out here? It’s below fucking freezing.” 

“I got a job today.” Ian hadn’t wanted to say it, but there’s something about the hollow tone of his voice that he hopes translates into what he actually means. 

“I heard.” Mickey maneuvers around Ian so that he can stand directly in front of him. “Debbie’s making margaritas or some shit to celebrate.” Mickey is obviously trying very hard to fake calm, but Ian senses he’s all but vibrating with untapped worry and frustration. 

“Great.” 

Mickey just stands there staring and waiting. The chatter and commotion from above fills the silence ominously. 

Ian runs his hands through his hair. There’s nothing he’d like more than to take Mickey’s hand, lead him into the kitchen, smile at his sister, all that shit. But here he is, sitting in the dark and feeling too little and too much. 

“Come inside?” 

Ian nods. He follows Mickey up the steps, towards the warmth of the house. There must be something brutal in Mickey’s eyes that effectively cuts any commentary off when they enter the room. Everyone inside is suddenly very busy with some task or other. Ian avoids eye contact with Carl, then Debbie, then Lip, Liam, and follows Mickey to the second floor. Once they make it up to their room, Mickey works his coat off and unbuckles his belt. He places a warm hand on Ian’s cheek. 

“You feel like a goddamn corpse.” 

Mickey glides his hands up and down Ian’s arms once, as if creating heat through the gentle friction might fix anything. Ian breathes thickly. 

“Mickey.” 

Mickey looks up at him with his eyebrows raised. 

“Can you just…” Ian tries breathing again. “Can you just leave me alone for a bit?” 

Mickey’s eyes harden. He wets his lips and seems to struggle with himself for a moment. He places his palm back on Ian’s face just long enough to stroke his cheekbone with his thumb. Then he drops his arm and grabs for the doorknob. He lets a breath out through his nose, then slams the door shut behind him with just a little too much force. 

Ian can’t think about how his whole family is probably talking about him behind his back now, or the fact that he just pushed Mickey away for the millionth time, or his stupid job. He’s suddenly ice cold, so he burrows under his comforter and tries not to think about anything at all. 

  
  
  


A week later marks the day before Thanksgiving, which, as all is true of all holidays in their family, has the potential to be an unparalleled disaster. For that reason among others, the entire family had adopted a tacit agreement that they weren’t going to celebrate, especially considering how fractured everything has started to feel. 

At least, they were entirely ignoring the holiday until Fiona showed up unannounced on Wednesday night wielding a shocking amount of pumpkin pie and providing precisely zero explanations. As each of the family members caught wind of her arrival, the night had morphed unexpectedly into a Gallagher Party of unprecedented scale. Family members, blood or otherwise, had flocked to the house like Fiona was some type of homing signal. 

The Gallagher party blended seamlessly Thanksgiving day, leaving most of the members of the house nearly comatose until the early afternoon. 

At quarter to four, Ian finds himself sitting on the end of the couch with Fiona, half watching the end of an animated movie that Liam and Franny are both completely engrossed in. 

“You think we mighta killed Carl last night?” Fiona muses, voice low enough to not distract the kids. Ian smirks. Fiona’s introduction of White Claw to Carl had gone over a little too well. Probably best if he gets that particular fad out of his system, he thinks. For his reputation, if nothing else. 

“What about Debbie? She’s been practically a senior citizen lately. Her bedtime is like 8:30 now.” Fiona screws up her face in disbelief. 

“Disgraceful to the Gallagher name,” She declares, shaking her head. Ian laughs lightly. Fiona winds her arm through his and rests her head on the crook of his shoulder. Ian is almost surprised at how excessively tactile Fiona has been since she arrived, but then he remembers how long she’s been away and it makes complete sense. 

“How’ve ya been, little brother?” She asks, playing casual. 

“Good.” If not good, he’s been doing better. He can feel Fiona’s eyes flicker up to examine his face. 

“How’s Mickey? I think you guys have already won the longest-lasting Gallagher marriage. By a landslide.” 

Ian feels his heart sink. Mickey had woken up this morning not with The Headache, but with an undeniable migraine. He’d brushed it off as a hangover, of course. Ian had made a few attempts throughout the day to help him, but finally settled on digging out a set of blackout curtains from the attic and acquiescing to his request for a cold beer, justifying it by merit of the fact that Mickey’s brand of beer is so watered down it might as well be a sports drink. 

“Lip told me you were worried about him,” Fiona tries, gently prodding. 

“Yeah,” Ian admits. “I am.” 

Fiona tightens her grip on his upper arm. 

“You know, you’re doing good, Ian.” 

Ian almost recoils, leaning back from Fiona to see if she was pulling his leg. Fiona shoots him a challenging look. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He demands, to which Fiona elbows him in the ribs. 

“This shit’s fuckin’ hard is what I mean. I couldn’t pull off a marriage and be a part of this messed up family at the same time.”

“Yeah, you bailed on both.” Ian thinks he means it as a joke, and he’s damn lucky Fiona’s in a good mood and accepts it as such. 

“Hey, asshole - I’m trying to be nice here.” Ian briefly considers throwing her a half-assed apology, but then he decides instead to ask a question that’s suddenly burning in his mind. 

“How the hell did you do it?” 

“Do what?” Fiona’s eyebrows furrow. 

“How did you take care of all of us for so long? Like even when Carl broke all his bones and went to juvie for heroin and when I lost my mind - when Debbie stole fucking babies, and Lip was... just a giant fuckin’ asshole?” 

Fiona huffs a quick laugh at the last accusation, but then gets serious again.

“I left,” she answers. “I fuckin’ couldn’t do it, I guess.” She doesn’t sound particularly guilty, and Ian’s glad for that.

He throws his arm over her shoulder, pulls her back in close.

“Thanks, Fiona.” Fiona glances over at him searchingly, her eyes shining. 

“What for?” 

“I’m just glad you’re here.” Fiona breaks out into a smile. 

“You know what I want to do right now?” She asks, still grinning. Ian shrugs and waits for her response. 

“Order a shit ton of pizza.” He smiles, too. 

“Fuck yeah.” 

The towering stack of pizzas that arrive at their doorstep an hour later stink wonderfully of garlic and grease in a way that instantly permeates through the entire house and draws everyone out like flies. By some wonderful coincidence, Lip and Tami arrive with Freddie in tow just after the delivery boy pulls out. They apparently managed to escape early from the Tamietti Thanksgiving. Lip mutters something vaguely disparaging about the combination of marshmallows and sweet potatoes, to which Tami withers him with a glare but doesn’t seem to disagree with his general sentiment. 

Carl and Debbie both stumble downstairs and dog Fiona and Ian’s heels as they haul all of the pizza boxes to cover every flat surface in the kitchen. With the entire extended family in the same room, Ian marvels at the fact that he finally doesn’t feel an overwhelming urge to head for the hills. He finds a seat at the table and prepares to grab a slice for himself, which is the moment that Franny takes what could only be characterized as a flying leap into his lap, landing so hard on his crotch that he lets out a truly undignified squawk of pain. Lip and Carl break into peals of laughter at his expense. 

“Careful, Franny. If you damage Uncle Ian there Mickey’s not gonna be happy,” Lip says. 

“Hey, Lip, can you not corrupt my daughter?” Debbie protests. Carl snickers around a large slice of pepperoni.

“Greetings, Gallagher clan!” Frank’s voice booms from the front doorway, and everyone lets out a chorus of groans as they see him strut in. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be squatting in some McMansion, Frank?” Lip asks. 

“Couldn’t miss a chance to witness my eldest daughter crawling back home in disgrace,” He replies. Fiona looks nonplussed. 

Frank strides in from the living room towards the kitchen, eying the mountains of pizza with a glint in his eye. Everyone unanimously begins to voice protest with varying levels of hostility. This is the moment that Mickey finally trudges down the stairs, looking every bit like a bear rudely interrupted from hibernation. 

“Ah, if it isn’t my newest son-in-law!” Frank greets, smarmy as can be. Mickey only just reaches the foot of the stairs in front of his aforementioned father-in-law before he throws a swift punch to the dead center of Frank’s face. Frank, potentially influenced by the usual cocktail of depressants in his system or just a testament to Mickey’s well-practiced right hook, drops immediately. His body makes a dull, sickening thud as it hits the floor, and the sound gives way to a split moment of pin-drop silence. Mickey shakes his fist out and directs his attention casually to the massive array of pizza. 

“Jesus, Mickey,” Lip blurts, half surprised, half pleased. 

“Shit,” Fiona breathes, staring down at the droplets of blood from Frank’s nose now staining the kitchen floor at her feet. 

Franny giggles as she looks over at Frank’s awkwardly crumpled form, which is almost certainly what sets Ian off. His first little laugh morphs into the kind of gasping-for-air fit of hilarity that he hasn’t had in a while. Mickey watches his husband utterly lose his shit and attempts to stifle a smile. 

“I’m going for a walk around the block,” Tami announces, pointedly. She steps over Frank with her mile high legs and stalks out of the house. That makes Carl laugh, which sets Ian off again. 

“I swear to God, Ian,” Fiona groans, caught between smiling and grimacing. “Go help your psycho husband get Frank off the floor and outta sight, please?” She eyes Mickey, warning. Mickey shrugs, unrepentant, and crouches down to turn Frank over so he can get a better purchase to lift him under the armpits. Ian plops Franny into Debbie’s lap and goes to grab Frank’s legs. They dump him unceremoniously onto the couch and return to the table to join the family for dinner. 

Maybe it’s because nothing draws the Gallagher family together like pure chaos and a well-timed sucker punch, but everyone seems to be in decent spirits after that. Even Tami stages a tentative return. Everyone piles around the table in a mild sprawl, and a shocking amount of pizza vanishes within the hour. 

Once everyone has descended into a proper food coma, Debbie stands up loudly and waits for everyone’s attention. 

“In the spirit of the holidays, I have a belated wedding gift I would like to give,” she announces. Ian and Mickey both perk up slightly. Mickey flashes Ian a look that indicates he might be worried that she’s going to try to give them a live boa constrictor or a sex swing. 

Instead, Debbie pulls out her ancient brick of a laptop and spins it around so that they can see. The screen is dim and smudged, but even from the distance they can make out the page heading in bold black words:  **Hope for Ian and Mickey** . Underneath is a photo from their wedding day, in which Mickey is smiling brightly through his black eye with Ian is draped over him, sporting an embarrassingly doofy grin.

“What the fuck is this?” Mickey asks. 

“Your GoFundMe,” Liam chimes in. Ian just then notices the large orange  _ Donate Now _ button to the right, as well as a halfway filled in green bar above it. 

“Okay, let me ask again - maybe I wasn’t fuckin’ clear. What. The fuck. Is that?” Mickey repeats. Ian cranes his neck so he can examine the page closer, until Debbie passes the laptop over, watching them like a hawk. 

“Raising money for you guys. People donate for all types of stuff. One of the sixth graders got the money to buy Jordans for his whole family because he lied and said he was in a crippling bus accident,” Liam explains. 

If Mickey’s eyebrows go any higher, they’ll fly off his head and into outer space. Ian looks to Fiona and Lip for help, but they’re just angling their chairs so that they can peer at the GoFundMe page with unbridled interest. 

Fighting a sudden intense trepidation, Ian scrolls down past their photo towards a block of text underneath. 

_ Hi, we’re Ian and Mickey’s family and we’re asking for your support. Ian and Mickey are two formerly incarcerated gay husbands struggling to live in the Southside of Chicago. For years now, they have been wrongly targeted by their violently homophobic family, as well as the injustices of the broken criminal justice system and the cycle of poverty. As a result, Mickey has received massive physical trauma from his abusive household, and Ian is struggling to pay for access to healthcare for his bipolar I through sex work, during which he is subjected to horrific aggressions because of his sexual orientation.  _

_ As a result of the years of abuse and discrimination, Mickey and Ian have devastating medical expenses that they can’t pay for unless they receive your help. Any and all generous donations would go directly to medical bills. Thank you for helping us fight back against homophobia! _

With every line that Ian reads, his blood increasingly boils. He worries faintly that the power of rage might just stop Mickey’s heart on the spot. 

“Debbie. Tell me this isn’t actually public,” Ian manages to grit out. 

“Duh, it’s live! Did you guys even see how much you’ve racked up already?” Debbie is valiantly ignoring the simmering indignation before her. 

Ian’s stomach does a flip when he does look at the dollar amount written above the little green meter. 

**$5,641 of $10,000**

“Is this a joke?” Ian yelps. Fiona stands up and leans in so that she can see better, then chokes on her beer when she sees the number. 

“Over five thousand dollars?” she yells. There is a smattering of incredulous noises from around the table. 

“Who the hell is donating to this?” Lip wonders aloud. He also crowds around the screen, squinting at the text. “It says there are 512 donors?” 

At 512 people have already seen this. Jesus Christ. 

“Turns out I still have a large following on Tumblr. Shared it last night.” Debbie explains, self-satisfied. 

“The fuck is a Tumblr?” Mickey bites out, sounding fully dumbstruck. Utter disbelief seems to have surpassed rage for the moment. 

“These people don’t even know us,” Ian wonders aloud, scrolling through the list of mostly anonymous donations. 

“People love a good tragic gay love story, and your lives are pretty sad. Folks eat that stuff up,” Liam explains. 

“You put that online? What if Terry fucking sees this shit? He’d light up this whole fucking house,” Mickey protests, cracking his knuckles nervously. 

“C’mon, Mickey, it’s not like anybody in your family even knows how to read. Pretty sure you’re safe,” Lip cuts in. He raises his hands in a gesture of peace when Mickey flashes a homicidal look. 

“Is this for real?” Ian asks. He’s still hoping there’s a punchline coming. “You want us to use this money for our honeymoon or something?” 

“No, idiot. That would be fraud. Did you even read the description?” Debbie scoffs. That’s the last straw for Ian. He stands up and hands the laptop back to his sister. 

“Take that shit down,” he commands, and then turns to walk away. 

“What, you’re seriously gonna turn down free money? Debs is doing a nice thing for you guys. You don’t have to worry about where to get the funds to take care of your shit,” Fiona argues. Mickey huffs and walks over towards Ian. 

“We’ve got it covered. Jesus,” Mickey snaps. His glower matches exactly how Ian is feeling. 

“What, you planning to hold up a bank?” Lip asks. His jab actually hits a bit too close to the mark for comfort. Mickey flips him off and turns for the stairs. Ian shoots Lip an eyeroll and follows Mickey, taking two steps at once. 

“C’mon -” he beckons Mickey down the hall and into his childhood bedroom. Mickey shoots him a questioning look until he sees Ian dig into an opening in the corner of the trim at the bottom of the wall and pull out a dusty joint from an old hideaway from his teenage years. 

“How old is that?” Mickey eyes the joint warily, but he doesn’t hesitate to pull a lighter out of his back pocket. He reaches out his hand for Ian to give it to him. Ian does, leaving Mickey to light it while he collapses into a seated position on his bed, leaning back to prop himself up against the wall. 

Mickey takes an exploratory drag, scrunches his face up in distaste, then flops down next to Ian. He hands the joint over, and Ian accepts it readily. 

“Ugh. This shit’s the kinda stuff you’d only sell this to prep school idiots.” He complains, but doesn’t hesitate to take another hit when Ian passes it back to him. Ian coughs a little. The weed really is pretty dried out. 

“Sorry about Debbie,” Ian mutters. He rolls his shoulders back, trying to relax some of the residual tension. 

“Nah. She’s not totally wrong.” Ian leans back defiantly, about to protest before Mickey continues. “Your life  _ has _ been pretty fuckin’ sad.” 

Ian finds himself laughing again, small and choked as it comes out. 

“Bold words from the guy whose own dad wants to off him,” he shoots back. 

“I think you mean the guy who’s about to have five grand in his back pocket because his husband’s family is fucking nuts.” 

“You know there’s no way in hell we’re keeping that,” Ian reminds him flatly. Mickey huffs. 

“Nah, I vote we take it and blow it all in a night. That’ll teach Debbie to cut the Pollyanna act. Easy.”

Ian gives this some consideration. Letting Debbie inadvertently commit fraud does seem like one viable way to prove to her just how fucked up her stunt was. And he’s definitely seen first hand what a wealthy person can get up to during an evening out in downtown Chicago. One time, Ned had ordered two lobsters to be sent up to their sky-high hotel room and they’d eaten it together in a jacuzzi tub. 

“That’d cover a Presidential Suite at the Waldorf. They’ve got a rooftop pool and a minibar in every room,” Ian muses. 

“Fucking perfect. I always wanted to try that room service thing.” 

They finish the joint while intermittently listing off increasingly ridiculous ways to blow a few grand. By the time Mickey suggests that they buy a houseboat, Ian realizes that the afternoon sun has already faded into dusk, so he leans over and flicks on the bedside table lamp. Immediately, Mickey flinches against the light, screwing his eyes shut. His obvious pain is the only thing Ian needs to be instantly catapulted back into reality. 

The last few weeks, Ian has felt like he’s been barely hanging on. But that’s the craziest thing: he’s basically got it all - he’s married to the man he loves beyond reason, his family is together and safe, and now they’re sitting on a miraculous bit of funding? There’s no chance they’re going to the Waldorf fucking Astoria. He thinks deep down Mickey must know this, too. 

Ian looks down at his lap. Maybe the weed has mellowed him out some, taken away some of the sting of that stupid fundraiser. He feels oddly grounded. 

“I’ll do it,” he says. 

Mickey stubs out the remnants of the joint on the windowsill and looks at him.

“Do what?” 

“I’ll take the money. I’ll go to a fucking shrink. So I can address the trauma of “years of horrific discrimination” or whatever the fuck Debbie put down on that bullshit site.”

“You serious?” Mickey sounds cautious, but his face is already softening with relief. 

“Yeah. So long as you take your half and let someone fix your head,” Ian illustrates by running a hand through the hair at the base of Mickey’s skull. And maybe if Mickey were years younger and still running on fifty percent bravado and fifty percent fear, he probably would have put up a fight. Hell, maybe he still would today if his brain was less bruised. For whatever reason, Mickey quietly allows himself to lean into Ian’s touch. 

“Sounds like a fucking deal, Gallagher.” He closes the gap between and kisses Ian, but breaks off after a couple of breathless moments in order to catch Ian’s eyes. 

“Besides, I’m sure the security at your fancy ass hotel is for shit. Only fucking fat-cat morons would pay actual money to stay there.” Ian suppresses a laugh because he’s feeling pretty single-minded about kissing Mickey at the moment. 

Things are about to heat up when there comes a light tapping on the door. 

“Uncle Ian?” Franny’s tentative voice barely registers through the doorway. 

Ian bolts up and pulls the door open. The second he does, Franny’s wrinkles her nose adorably. 

“It smells funny in here,” she says. Ian gives Mickey a panicked glance, to which Mickey throws open the window. 

“What’s up, Franny?” Ian asks. 

“Mommy said to tell you guys that everyone’s eating pie downstairs. Will you come back?” It might be Ian’s imagination, but he could swear Franny bats her goddamn eyelashes. 

“Unbelievable,” Mickey says. 

“We’re coming, don’t worry,” Ian assures. Mickey gives a tight nod. Franny breaks into a sunny smile, and pulls on a wad of his jeans to draw him out with Ian. 

“Your sister thinks she’s so slick,” Mickey mutters to Ian under his breath. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll get her back later. Come on, it’s Thanksgiving.” 

  
  


“Would someone like to explain to me why I just got a call from my daughter’s principal today telling me that she allegedly called a kid a name so vile that the woman couldn’t repeat it to me over the phone?” Debbie yells, while storming through the house and brandishing her car keys like she’s about to chuck them at the brother of hers with the guiltiest look about him. Ian seriously wishes he’d thought of a reason to be out of the house today. After working at the restaurant for a couple of months now, he’s only just got the balls to ask his boss for a day off. He and Lip are having a later afternoon coffee before Lip has to make dinner for Tami, and he really hadn’t been expecting Debbie home this early. 

“Must be a rebellious phase,” Lip says. 

“Maybe the kid deserved it,” Ian suggests. 

“Please. I couldn’t even get her to misbehave on purpose when it was a crisis. Somebody here is to blame for teaching her that shit,” Debbie accuses. 

“Have you tried Carl?” asks Lip. Debbie just rolls her eyes and stomps back to her car. 

Lip eyes Ian knowingly. 

“Real fucking mature, man,” he says. He’s smirking, though. 

“Don’t look at me, that shit was all Mickey,” Ian protests. He doesn’t want to tell Lip that Mickey’s also decided to teach Franny how to shoot a BB gun at moldy vegetables in the backyard. Ian might have stepped in had Franny not taken to it immediately with the kind of chaotic glee that marks her as a true member of the Gallagher family. 

At that moment, the sound of the front door opening echoes throughout the house.

“Speak of the devil,” Ian grins. Lip shakes his head.

“Good luck, man,” he teases, and then slips out the back door.

“What are you doing here? You got a shift tonight,” Mickey immediately demands, shucking off his snow-damp coat and stomping slush through the house. 

“Took tonight off,” Ian smiles. Immediately, Mickey’s forehead wrinkles. 

“Why? You okay?” He stands over Ian and searches his face with an increasingly furrowed brow. Ian lets him cup his face along his jawline briefly before brushing him off. 

“Calm down. I just wanted a night off with my husband.” 

Mickey raises an eyebrow, and leans back against the kitchen counter. 

“Oh yeah?” He questions. “Where is everybody?” 

“Debbie is housesitting for Kev and Vee with Franny, Lip’s at his place, who the fuck ever knows where Carl is, and Liam’s at a friend’s house.” 

“Liam’s got friends? Good for him,” Mickey comments wryly. He crosses his arms, apparently coming to the conclusion that it isn’t by coincidence that all of Ian’s family has decided to make themselves scarce tonight. “Just us tonight, huh?” 

Ian rises from his chair so he can loom over Mickey. He takes a turn and gives Mickey a critical once-over, noting the lines on his face are smoother, and he hasn’t been recoiling back from the harsh kitchen lights. 

“That a problem?” He challenges. Mickey struggles against a goofy smile. 

“That’s - there a word for opposite of a problem?” 

“I love you.” 

Mickey breaks, allowing that sappy, soft smile to spread across his face in earnest. 

“Nah, that ain’t it.” 

“Aw, shut the fuck up -” Ian starts, but Mickey is already kissing him. Ian melts into it, relishing the solid warmth of Mickey’s chest pressed against his, and the way that Mickey’s hands snake around to grab hold of him by the small of his back. He deepens the kiss, lets it morph from languid into something more urgent. Mickey makes a soft sound from the back of his throat, and Ian feels him respond to the change in pace. Mickey pushes Ian back, breathless. 

“Slow your roll, Gallagher, unless you wanna fuck on your family’s kitchen table,” he protests. Ian suspects he isn’t entirely opposed to that idea. Ian presses a playful, sloppy kiss on Mickey’s neck just to test the waters. 

“I would, but I’m pretty sure Frank and Monica have already christened that table a few times.” 

“Jesus, I said slow down, not kill the mood,” Mickey gripes, looking appropriately haunted by that mental imagery. 

“Alright, alright. What do you wanna do then?” Ian asks. 

And that’s just it. Ian and Mickey, alone in the Gallagher house, free to do whatever the hell they want. Mickey is clear eyed and pain-free, and all Ian want right now is this exact moment. Fuck the past and the future, tonight Ian Gallagher is going to order cheap take-out with his husband and they’re going to take care of each other. 

**Author's Note:**

> Two things to note: I just want to be clear that I think GoFundMe's are great, and an awesome resource for people in tough situations. I just think within the Shameless universe their attitudes would not be exactly positive. Additionally, I have no personal experience with bipolar disorder/depression, but I did my best to treat those topics with respect and a touch of research. 
> 
> I wrote this because Shameless has an unfortunate history of forgetting about characters' backstories, which I think is particularly noticeable/ annoying in the case of Ian and Mickey. Thus, I cobbled together this story that is essentially 20k of those characters trying to move forward while struggling, as people tend to do, with the lingering effects of the past. 
> 
> I included Trevor in this because I thought he deserved better, goddammit.


End file.
